


Aubade

by OnyxSphynx



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Ed makes a cameo, Gen, Jim isn't a dick, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Aubade: a love song sung at dawn





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look who's back! This is something I barely got out between my theater makup class and the unpleasant discovery that I had lice (listerine works well to get them paralysed but gods damn it it fucking burns) which took about a week to get rid of (thankfully, it hadn't progressed much but tbh finding out I had lice did nada for my self esteem) and by the time I get this posted I'll be trapped in a beach-house for a "family vacation" with my parents, siblings, two aunts, an uncle, three cousins, my grandparents, and little to no time alone *insert upside-down smiley face*
> 
> For Summer of Gotham Week 8: Sharing a bed, trapped in Arkham

The cell is dark, dank. The water drips, ominously, paints a morbid tableau of the room and its sole inhabitant; Oswald, himself, is in little better shape than the cell he's in- mind fried, practically, though it's no surprise given the regular electro-shock therapy Strange subjects him to and the animosity and aggressiveness from the other inmates that leave flowery bruises on his skin, a fine line between beauty and pain, as his mother would say. Oh, mother. His vision flickers, the room flashing in and out of monochrome and vibrance alternatingly. He wonders what his mother would say if she saw him now, brought low like this, and thinks she'd wrap him up in a hug and a sweater, console him, tell him it was hardly his fault for trusting Jim Gordon, because that's how she shows she cares. Showed.

Jim Gordon. Oswald feels like choking out a sardonic laugh. The one man he trusted, the man he saved, who he  _lied for_. The man who left him here, in this hellhole, where he can feel his sanity, fragile though it was originally, slipping away with each pulse of electricity sent into his cranium, rewriting his neural pathways and warping him into something unrecognizable to even himself. The taping, louder this time, wrenches his mind away from his thoughts, and he tenses; it's not the steady  _drip-drip-drip_  of water, rather, louder, more scraping, like footsteps, and there're two possibilities: either it's the other inmates come to grow more delicate, green-blue-purple-black blossoms across his skin or Strange's thugs, here to drag him back to The Room. He's not sure which would be worse. Perhaps, given the way the electroshock therapy is warping his very self, he prefers being beaten. After all, that, at least, is a one-hundred-percent physical feeling he can focus on.

Sadly, if that's a term he can apply, because by now, he's crossed from emotion to a mixture of total apathy and all-consuming fear, it's Strange, himself, an oily smile stretched across his face, a sadistic glee in his eyes, who places a hand on the panel beside the cell, which, Oswald knows, given the number of times the  _good doctor_ has taunted him with the knowledge, is keyed to Stange, and only Strange's, DNA, as the good doctor tells him the first few time he tries to raise a complaint about being used as a punching bag by the other inmates. It glows green, a small pop sounding that indicates the electricity running through the bars has been turned off, and then the  _pshhh-click_  of the pistons activating to raise the bars. Oswald raises his head slightly from the small, uncomfortable bed he's strapped to, drops it again, the execution exhausting him, and Strange signals to the two thugs behind him to undo Oswald's bindings and there's a click of keys in locks and his bindings fall away, and the two thugs grab him, roughly, practically dragging him to The Room, ignoring his weak whimpers of pain when his bad leg his against the ground a bit too hard, sending a searing blades of pain up his leg.

This time, The Room is decorated even more spartanly than usually, with the chair sitting by itself in the middle of the small floor space, hooked up the power outlet, and the thugs strap Oswald into the chair, binding his wrists a bit too tight so that the metal digs into his skin. Strange lowers the metal cap strips over his head, and starts connecting the electrodes, sending daggers of fear into his mind, and he struggles and tries to scream but the bindings are too tight. Strange lowers the contraption over his head, stroking it lovingly, making Oswald recoil in disgust. Strange laughs, softly, and connects the rest of the pieces, flips the switch, and a million daggers of pain stab into his head, searing brands tearing away at his neural pathways, and there's a cacophony of pained screams around him.

They're his screams, he realizes. 

Then, abruptly, the electric shock stops, leaving the phantom echoes of pain. Oswald instinctively tenses up in anticipation of the next one, and, without his permission, words burst from his mouth as they always do, eyes squeezed shut, "Please, please, stop,  _please stop I'll do anything you want_ just  _make it stop_!" 

A sharp intake of breath, and there's a whispered, "Oh, Oswald, what have they  _done_ to you?" Someone starts undoing his bindings, and he instinctively flinches, but the touch is gentle, and the person gathers him into their arms, carefully. Exhausted, he lets himself drift off into sleep, uncaring of what happens to him next.

* * *

 

When he gets Oswald back to his apartment with Ed's help, the soft light of the full moon is creeping over structures, illuminating Gotham in a way that takes off the dark, sharp edges of the city, making it look almost soft and inviting. Thankfully, though, there's no one out, just as Ed had calculated, so he doesn't have to worry about someone calling the police on him.

Ed helps him get Oswald settled into the bed, and Jim cleans his wounds, binding and bandaging and, even stitching, in one case. By the end, he's exhausted, and he sends a worried Ed home, and collapses on the sofa, pushing aside thoughts of Strange coming after them, of proving that Oswald  _was_ being tortured, of the fact that he's harbouring a criminal.

There's a small mumble and Jim snaps back to wakefulness, alert. Hours must've passed- the sun's rising, casting the apartment into soft, indistinct shadows. Jim gets up and makes his way to the bedroom. Oswald's awake, pale and vulnerable wrapped up in the sheets, tear-tracks on his cheeks.

"Oswald? Are you okay?" Jim asks softly, and Oswald's eyes focus, confused.

He raises a hand to his hairline, asks, voice trembling, "James? Where are...where am I?"The frailty of his voice is striking- Jim is so used to Oswald confidant, always six steps ahead, and it gives him pause. 

"You're...my apartment." Jim replies, then continues, voice cracking slightly, "I-I'm sorry, Oswald. I should've believed you when you said they were torturing you-"

Oswald raises a hand to stop him. "Your apology is appreciated," he says fimly. "You genuinely believed that I was lying, and I can hardly blame you. But that doesn't mean that I forgive you."

"I understand, Oswald," Jim says, because he does, even if he feels slightly hurt. "You have a right to be angry- to not forgive me. I just...I'm sorry that my actions led you to get hurt."

Oswald's expression softens, and he draws back the covers. "Come lie down, James. The sofa is hardly a comfortable place to sleep and you look dead on your feet," he says, continuing with "there's plenty of room for the both of us," when Jim opens his mouth to argue.

"Okay," Jim says grudgingly, and climbs under the covers, laying stiff as a board for a few minutes before exhaustion overtakes him. 

From where he's propped up, Oswald smiles softly, brushes the blonde hair- longer than he remembers- away from the other's face, and whispers, "Sleep well, James." 


End file.
